


annalist

by ballantine



Series: noble consuls of rome [5]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Rome (TV 2005), Βίοι Παράλληλοι - Πλούταρχος | Parallel Lives - Plutarch
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Gossip, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25009540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: One day, three perspectives on the consul Brutus, and everyone wondering what that comet hanging in the sky is supposed to mean.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Series: noble consuls of rome [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730350
Comments: 11
Kudos: 28





	annalist

**The Senator**

He was just finishing up with his weekly meeting with the boy when the jackal popped in. He'd said he might stop by later, and Cicero knew this premature arrival was anything but a coincidence.

Still, he supposed the boy had to exposed to such figures sooner or later. There were enough of them in the city.

“Gaius Sallustius Crispus,” he said, standing, “meet Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus _._ ”

“Ha, keeping the name despite everything, eh?” said Sallust.

As always, his manners caused Cicero great pain. He was the type of man who made some of the more conservative members of the Senate to turn up their noses at all equites. These same colleagues took pains to assure Cicero he was 'one of the good ones', which never made him feel as respected as they seemed to suppose.

“I think it would be unfilial to reject it,” said Octavian, unoffended. Nothing much seemed to offend him. It was one of the many reasons Cicero had high hopes for his prospects. (Another was how attentive the boy was when Cicero spoke; his eyes never wandered, and his questions were always pertinent and respectful.)

Octavian continued, “Despite my late benefactor's transgressions, I believe there is much that can be done to salvage the name. Especially with his estate at my disposal.”

Sallust availed himself of a seat. Cicero smiled tightly at him from behind Octavian. Sallust crossed his legs and leaned back, placing his hands on his stomach: the picture of ease.

“Yes – I was very disappointed to hear about our esteemed consul's hasty moratorium on privately-sponsored games and festivals. Such a pity. I'm sure you would've put on a real good show. Personally, I think Brutus took the view that if he did not get to supervise the Apollo Games, he wouldn't countenance anyone else having any glory. Cimber did a fine enough job, I suppose....” he trailed off, eyeing Octavian expectantly.

“I had planned on attending, but was indisposed that week,” said Octavian, revealing nothing.

Sallust nodded and stroked his chin, as if this was something to be considered. He said, lacking all subtlety and apropos of absolutely nothing, “Funny business with this comet. What do you make of it?” This question, he directed to both of them.

With the supreme control he always exercised over his body and composure, Cicero did not: groan, rolls his eyes, sigh, look down, look to the side, twitch his shoulders, sneer, scoff, or tell the old goat to get out of his house.

It had been five long days of Rome talking about the comet that hung over the city an hour before sunset every evening. Cicero was over it. He was a religious man, but not a superstitious one; whatever the comet actually signified, he knew its interpretation would be subject to every public relations campaign in the city. The winner would be decided by politics, not priests.

“If the baker down the street is to be believed, the comet means all date tarts are destined to be half-off until the kalends,” said Cicero.

Sallust's eyes gleamed humorously at him, but subsided to innocent query as he looked back to Octavian. The man couldn't be more obvious if he had a tablet and stylus at the waiting. How tedious.

Octavian spoke carefully. “The timing of the comet – one possibility is that it is a sign of Caesar, ascending to his godhead.”

Timing? Cicero thought dryly. Four months after the man was killed? He admired the boy's persistence, but this particular angle was hardly his best work.

“I've heard that rumor, as well,” he said, aiming for diplomatic.

“Rumor implies it is a bit of gossip brewed up on the street,” said Octavian, turning and fixing him suddenly with a cold eye.

“Of course,” said Cicero smoothly, concealing his startlement. “I only meant it is a popular idea, one shared in many quarters.”

“I have heard it as well,” put in Sallust. “Caesar was a great man, and I have no doubt he would be a most righteous god.”

“You were a loyal friend to him,” said Octavian, turning back to him, a thoughtful shade to his voice.

“I was.”

Caesar'd had as many loyal friends as he had bribes to hand out. Cicero searched for a segue to free him from any impending Caesarian lovefest.

“Speaking of loyal friends to Caesar,” he said, “Would you both not agree that our consul has improved with his colleague gone from the city? Since that dog Antony left for the war trail, Brutus has dedicated himself most admirably to rooting out corruption among the provincial governors.”

Sallust cocked his head and surveyed him, but said nothing. He would not miss the subtle dig to his person. People in Africa still spat on the ground at the voicing of his name.

“Brutus has acquitted himself on some fronts,” said Octavian, “but I see no reason this should bring any relief to us.”

It was beneath his dignity to ask _how do you mean?_ of a mere boy, so Cicero eloquently rose his eyebrows and waited. Sallust leaned forward imperceptibly.

Octavian looked between the two, as if disbelieving they had not already had the double of his own thought. He said slowly, “Antony's limitations are legion, but his ability in the field cannot be counted among them. So long as Brutus has him under his control, they represent a formidable threat to the Republic.”

Cicero could not hide his amusement. Ah, the drama of youth. “Threat? Dear boy, so long as Brutus holds the leash to that animal, the only threat the Republic faces is the one to our dignity.”

But Octavian said quickly, “I disagree. I think what could not be tolerated in one man might be acceptable to some in the form of two. That together they could act the dictator under the cover of their legal office.”

Sallust said, angling for nothing but more quotes, “I have noticed the two of them make it difficult for anyone else to assert themselves.”

“I don't disagree with your observations, understand,” said Cicero, now testy. “But you misread Brutus. Their term will end and then Antony, gods willing, will be up on charges, and Brutus will be governor of some far-flung province, making its occupants very happy – or, at least, not terribly unhappy.” Which was the best some provinces could wish for, these days.

“You think Brutus will step back when you charge Antony?” said Octavian. He sounded almost scornful, but Cicero thought he must have misheard.

“ _Oh_ ,” said Sallust, turning to Octavian eagerly. “So you count yourself a believer in the rumors about the two of them?”

“What does it matter?” asked the boy. “Once it is said, it is known, and if it is known it can be used.”  
  


* * *

  
“Well,” said Sallust, after Octavian had gone. “He's certainly something, isn't he?”

Cicero settled behind his desk. “I have high hopes for him.”

“Can't say the resemblance to his great-uncle is very strong. His mind – his mind seems quite agile, but his manner lacks a certain, well...” Sallust caught his severe look and amended hastily, “it's fine. I'm sure it's fine.” He clapped his hands and stood to pace the room. “So! Cicero, old friend—”

“Is that what we are,” murmured Cicero.

“I know this a little belated, but I believe congratulations are in order.”

He couldn't help but straighten in his seat a little. “Indeed?”

Sallust tilted him a knowing look. “That business with the Egyptian queen, and all the public announcements of congratulations to the little foreign princeling? You expect me to believe you didn't have a hand in that deal?”

“I was present,” said Cicero modestly. He added, “For every meeting.”

“You have neutered the name of Caesar. I confess I did not think it could be done.”

“Well, I certainly don't think we shall see anyone rushing to vie for it now that the man's been tied to a foreign love affair and a bastard son.” Cicero allowed himself a small, honest smile. “You know, I thought the man would get away with it? A lifetime of sleeping with half the continent, and I really thought the charge would never stick.”

Sallust said, “It still might not. The boy doesn't seem to have let it go yet.”

Cicero waved this off. “He will. In time – you must remember what it's like to be so young. A few months feels like both an age and a day at the same time. He will realize his prospects lie elsewhere soon enough.”

“And I suppose you will be there to aid this very rich young man along the way to enlightenment.”

Cicero headed this insinuation off with a crisp, “The only repayment I expect is that Octavian allow me to continue mentoring him. We are not all so weak to the potential for windfall riches.” This last was said with a pointed look.

But Sallust had a thick callous over his past indiscretions and only shrugged lightly. “Of course.” He flicked his a shrewd look. “And are you truly not concerned about Brutus?”

“Brutus is principled to a fault,” said Cicero, dismissive. “I think once he sees the full breadth and force of public opposition to his colleague, he will bow to the morals demanded of the moment, no matter his personal feelings.”

“I see.” Sallust sighed and stood. “Well, best be off. I just wanted to pop by and get you on the record about the comet.”

Relieved, Cicero escorted him graciously to the door. “So is this correct, then, that you have decided to turn your talents to writing history?"

"Yes, I wanted to get out before it gets ugly. You'd do the same if you know what's good for you – they're all mad now, you know," advised Sallust. He waved a hand. "Vanity and greed, that's all this is. You should hang up your toga – retire and write, so you leave something behind in this world that isn't just a smear of blood on the ground."

"What a picture you paint," said Cicero, amused. "Is this the kind of vivid dramatics we can expect to read in your monographs? I'm afraid, unlike you, dear Sallust, I cannot so easily relinquish my concern for our country."

The other man looked for a moment very serious, but when Cicero remained unmoved by his attempts at intimidation, he suddenly shrugged and said lightly, "They are going to kill you. Some day you will anger the wrong sword-brandishing maniac, and he will cut you down. I know it will happen. I shall make an offering to Mercury and whisper 'I told you' so in the entrails, hm?"

"I'm sure my shade will welcome the message when the time comes," he said. Then, not wanting to leave the meeting on such a gloomy note, he added, "It's a noble pursuit, when done correctly. History, I mean. I have always said it is a shame Rome does not have a Thucydides to call our own.”

Sallust flapped a hand. He was slow in stretching and adjusting his toga at the door. “I've been dabbling, trying a few things out – thought it was time someone wrote up a comprehensive narrative for the Catiline Conspiracy, for example.”

“Oh?” Cicero said casually. “That's certainly a worthy subject of recent history, well-overdue for a proper analysis – transfer that record from wax to stone, as it were....” He did not preen, quite. “I could provide you with copies of all my orations, of course, to assist you in your drafting.”

“Hm?” Sallust tugged an ear and turned back to him. He hadn't appeared to be listening, the wretch. “Oh? Oh, no – thank you very much, the offer is more than generous, Cicero. But I have my own notes, I think I'll be fine.”

Cicero set his teeth and followed him to the door. “Well, if you're sure— ”

“Relax, my friend,” he laughed. “What are you worried about? I'm hardly going to misattribute one of _your_ orations.”

  
  


**The Matron**

She stood straight-backed and patient in the center of the atrium and entertained herself by gazing placidly at the young guard standing by the door, who kept fighting not to glance at her. He lost the battle every other minute. He blushed easily. She did not let her smile show.

But eventually she tired of this game and directed her gaze to the fresco dominating the eastern wall. She took two steps closer to get a better look. She tilted her head back and her coiled, dark hair slipped over her shoulder to swing down her back. She heard the guard by the door shift on his feet, the leather straps of his cingulum clattering like blinds.

The fresco depicted a fearsome scene: the abduction of the Sabine women and Janus directing the Lautolae spring to erupt and consume the pursuing force. The windows on the opposing wall let in the light of the sinking sun, and it made a riot of color of the flames and blood. The faces of the men burning alive were particularly vivid.

It was Servilia's taste, she could spot it right away; only that woman would welcome people to her front hall with an image of divine wrath.

After ten minutes, the dominus of the house finally made an appearance.

“Julia,” said Brutus, betraying only a small measure of surprise, quickly stifled.

She turned neatly in place. “Brutus.”

He approached. “I'm sorry for keeping you waiting. We were in a meeting and did not expect you.”

She smiled quietly to show there was no offense and gestured at the fresco. “I was able to entertain myself by admiring your décor. I don't believe this was finished the last time I was here.”

He stepped up beside her and studied it. “I'm so used to it, I barely see it anymore. I think if I ever have children in the house, I shall have to have it moved – it'll surely terrify them into nightmares.”

“Some children are easily terrified,” she said, watching him now instead of the fresco. “As the world is full of true terrors, it can be helpful, I think, to provide some exposure to the feeling in an otherwise safe environment. Also it doesn't hurt to teach them to never act unless they are sure the gods shall be on their side.”

His eyes shifted down to her, and in the warm evening light of the atrium, their usual brown looked almost yellow.

Yellow and cold, like a reptile's eyes.

For as long as she'd known him, Brutus had always been faultlessly polite – ever composed, as one might expect by someone raised by Servilia. Though even with all his great effort, he never could completely conceal his dislike of her. This dislike was mutual. As a breed of son, she found him alien and incomprehensible; as a breed of man, she found him priggish.

“Forgive me,” he said abruptly, turning from the wall. He clasped his hands before him. “You haven't mentioned and I neglected to ask – why have you honored us with a visit today?”

“Oh, surely it can't be too much of a mystery after three long months of war.” said Antony's mother. “I've come to ask after my son.”  
  


* * *

  
Brutus led her into a small entertaining room off of the triclinium, where they joined Servilia and their other guest, who she recognized after a long, searching moment as Gaius Sallustius Crispus.

“Julia,” said Servilia.

“Servilia.” She turned to the man. “What an unexpected place to encounter you, Sallust. I heard you retired from public life?” She couldn't fathom a reason anyone would visit this house otherwise.

Sallust placed a hand on his chest and gave a half bow. “You heard correctly. I am quite busy with my gardens and writing. I generally live very happily now, having forsaken politics.”

Retirement was a polite word for the near-universal condemnation and outcry that had dogged the man's career after his disastrous governorship of Africa. But Julia was quite capable of being polite when she wanted to and let his statement stand unremarked upon. Brutus, she noticed, looked oddly wistful.

“So this is social call?” she inquired, glancing at Servilia, who looked displeased at the insinuation that she would socialize with an equestrian from Central Italy.

There was a time when she and Servilia has almost been friendly; they used to attend many of the same parties, anyway. But the charming couple who most often hosted was slaughtered by Sulla's men, and parties in the years following the purges were necessarily smaller and more restrained in their guest lists. It was hard going, socializing with people their age when you could never quite stop wondering if the person you were chatting theater with had informed on someone.

Servilia smiled, restrained. “Sallust here says he is writing a history. He is trying to get as many perspectives on the Republic's current condition as he can.”

“Why? Surely only the one matters.” She looked to Sallust with a raised eyebrow. “What are you doing, hedging your bets?”

After a startled second, Sallust smiled and inclined his head. “Forthright, as ever, I see.” He glanced at Servilia's composed face and asked, “Tell me – it's the talk of the streets – what does the mother of Consul Antony make of the comet visible overhead these past five days?”

The first moment she saw the comet, she had felt a stabbing pain in her abdomen, the same spot that used to bother her while she was still receiving her monthly cycles. She knew she had to come to this house and ask after Antony; the comet could only mean disaster. Everything seemed to entail disaster, when it came to her son.

“Perhaps it means we're in for a wet autumn,” she said.

Sallust and Servilia puzzled over this response.

“Julia, you were asking after Antony,” said Brutus. “Perhaps I could show you his last letter?”

“Charming to see you, as ever, Julia,” said his mother, turning back to Sallust with clear dismissal.

She was too well-practiced at not reacting to such disrespect to do anything but quit the room quietly and at a sedate pace.  
  


* * *

  
“I apologize for Mother,” said Brutus as they walked into his study down the hall.

“Why?” she asked, surprised.

Brutus didn't look at her as he rounded his desk and rifled through a neat stack of papers. “Well, she can be a little – focused. Sometimes. This history business with Sallust is the kind of thing she really goes in for. Legacy and all that.” He waved a hand to accompany the words, and something about the airiness of it had her planting her feet before his desk and saying:

“Well, why shouldn't she? Husbands and fathers are not long for this world. Rome allows them to grow and fornicate and then cuts them down before they can be of much use around the household. She is likely looking at you and figuring she best get on with it while she can.”

Brutus straightened, letter in hand dropping as he gaped at her for a second. Then his mouth shut and his eyes narrowed.

“You are as plain-spoken as Antony,” he said, after a moment. “I forgot.” He looked at the letter and then back at her, a little wry. He waved it in the air. “Do you even want to see this? Or did you actually come here to tell me your mind?”

“I'll take the letter as proof that he yet lives in some version of functional health.”

“And?”

“And I came to ask what your plan was for extracting him from the current situation – and don't try to give me some line like Servilia is likely feeding that man out there. I've known her for longer than you've been alive. I can hear her in your voice.”

Brutus glanced once, almost unwilling, at the open doorway and then sighed and collapsed into his desk chair.

He said, the lines around his mouth looking particularly deep, “You know, you are the only other person who talks about this consulship as something he needs to be saved from?”

She didn't like his strange, almost sympathetic air. Seeking to dispel it through shock, or repel it through dismay, she said, “I know my son. I know the way his mind works. It wasn't so long ago that I had to step over blood in the streets. And now it's he who might be the one doing the cutting. I'd rather not have that on my conscience.”

There were days and days she considered the gods and despised being a mother.

Brutus's feigned sympathy transformed and he said, appalled, “We don't aim to kill _anyone_ – anyone else, I mean. That's done with. All of it,” he added firmly, like his word could reconfigure an entire country. “The Republic—”

“Oh, _fuck_ the Republic,” she said. After a gobsmacked second, Brutus closed his mouth and inclined his head as if he was listening hard. “Don't babble to me about the Republic. Squabbling boys with swords, that's the Republic. Antony was barely off his wet-nurse's teat when half our neighbors were killed.”

He began again, determined, “That kind of chaos, is. Is precisely what we're trying to—”

“Under Caesar, Antony would have found a stable place of some repute. He would have been relatively safe from his worst impulses. And you dashed it all to pieces with a simple crook of your finger.”

In high emotions, Brutus tended to go sallow instead of red. Bloodless, she thought; the whole family had always been bloodless, all the way back to the Brutus who slayed his own children.

“I wouldn't characterize our discussion as a 'crook of my finger.'”

“No, I suppose not,” she agreed. “More likely you turned him into your catamite.”

Brutus paused. She met his eyes squarely. The room was silent; down the hallway, Servilia and Sallust's voices could be heard, still murmuring intermixed.

He said, “He's your son. It is only natural that you should feel protective of him. Though I must say, you have come to the practice rather late in life.”

Never had she seen such a strange conflict play out over a man's face. He looked upset, but not like he regretted uttering the words. She arched her eyebrows, and his mouth indented at the corner – but he didn't make any excuse or apology.

He squinted, pained, up in the air at nothing she could see. “Look, I have also heard of the rumors—”

“Rumors?” She laughed in his face, and Brutus frowned, eyes darting back to hers. “Your opinion of me as a mother may be low, but don't you dare take me for a fool.”

He stiffened. “I would not.”

“I know my son.”

“Do you.” It was a negation not a question. “You keep saying that, but I'm not sure it's true.”

“During the Consulship of Lentulus and Metellus, he was supposed to take an administrative position with Aulus Gabinius in Syria. I spent that entire winter talking the man into making an offer, knowing Antony would otherwise continue moping around Greece.”

Brutus now looked incredulous.

“There is much I can be blamed for – I spend many a night wracked with guilt, believe me. But I'm sorry, Antony choosing the cavalry over accounting scrolls is one thing that simply cannot be laid at my door. Have you _met_ your son.”

“It's not the choice so much the timing I found suspect, actually,” she said.

He hesitated, and there – she had him. She leaned over his desk to press the advantage, and spoke directly to his down-turned face.

“Do you think I couldn't decipher what was happening from his letters?”

“It's not much of a stretch,” he said, sounding strained. He looked determinedly off the to the side, like if he stared at the wall hard enough, the scene might pass him over. “After all, Antony's letters are the opposite of his oration. I've seen barley harvest reports with more emotion. It's very frustrating.” His finger flicked the neglected letter on his desk, almost resentful.

She spoke bluntly. “He had other opportunities to pursue a military career, but it wasn't until you left for Cyprus that he took one up.”

Brutus continued to blink furiously at the wall. He had gone quite pale again.

“So don't talk to me about _rumors_ ,” she said. “We both know this has been going on a lot longer that a few months.”

Like the words were a signal from off-stage, his chin lifted and his face cleared. It was as if he'd pulled on a panto mask.

He said, standing up and stepping back, “I won't discuss my private life.”

They stared at one another. Then he began to edge out of the room.

“...Private life,” she repeated, aghast, turning in place to follow his passage. “ _Private_ life?”

But Brutus, betraying his polite upbringing, was not to be stopped in his swift retreat. He raised a hand and said to her over his shoulder, “I shall remind Antony to write you in my next letter, hm? I'm sure he's just been busy. I've never been to Further Spain, but I hear it's – well. Something. Anyway....”

And then he was gone, and Julia was left feeling like as if she'd been stunned and crucified.

Private life.

It was the worst thing he could have said.

  
  


**The Soldier**

The comet had hung over him for the past five days as he rode south along the Italian peninsula towards Rome. Distant and strange as it was, he felt somehow comforted by its presence. He would never admit such audacity, but the comet felt like it was accompanying him on his lonely journey. It appeared again in the sky as he arrived at the edge of the city at dusk, and he couldn't help but crane his neck up to look at it.

“Hello again,” Lucilius murmured to it.

The firmament was changeable, but rarely so unpredictable. The comet had to mean something, he thought.

Once he was in Rome, he did not hesitate before swapping his uniform for civilian garb; he knew many a soldier had ceased to do so, but they were either careless or harbored active contempt for tradition, and neither would do for a friend of a consul.

(It was still strange to think: his friend was consul of Rome. He'd hoped he would become accustomed to the idea before arriving, but the steps between he and Brutus's house were shrinking, and the notion was still strange.)

Lucilius didn't imagine he was wrong about the feeling in the streets as he made his way through the city. Everyone else was wondering about the comet too, he supposed.

As he approached the house, he noticed an older man loitering just outside the gate. He leaned back against the wall and scribbled quickly away on a short length of scroll. If not for the fine drape of his toga, Lucilius might've taken him for a petitioner of some kind.

He moved to continue on into the house, but the man looked up at his passage, guessed at his destination, and called out heartily:

“A visitor to the house of Consul Brutus? Tell me, what do you think of his decision to ban private games?”

Lucilius glanced back, bemused by this impertinence.

“Um, fuck off?” he offered.

He regretted the reply as soon as he had passed the gates to the house; surely Brutus wouldn't appreciate any friend of his being rude to strangers on his doorstep. And for all Lucilius knew, he'd just told off someone important; he had been away from the city these past five years, and had a terrible memory for faces, besides.

He was let in to see Brutus, and his friend rose gladly from his desk and came around to embrace him.

“I might've insulted a very important man in front of your house just now,” said Lucilius, settling in a chair. He discreetly flexed his sore feet; he hadn't been out of his soldiering boots in months, and the sandals he wore could fit better. “If someone comes to you and complains, you have my permission to have me punished.”

Brutus took the other chair in front of the desk. They sat like the equals they no longer were.

He raised his eyebrows, amused. “And do you have a recommendation for an appropriate punishment? Surely this wasn't a crucifiable offense.”

Lucilius pretended to think about it. “Put me on barely rations for a while. There were two months this past year when even the officers had to live off the stuff, and I am very nearly used to it.”

“Ah, but surely barely rations in Illyria is a different magnitude of ordeal than barley rations in Rome, where there is much better fare to tempt you.”

“I shall have to hope the man wasn't very important, then,” he said, grinning.

“If it was who I suspect, I don't think you have to worry.” Brutus grew more somber and he looked down, brow knitting. “You rode through the city. How did it seem to you?”

“Not near so tense as you said in your letter back in April. Though, this comet—”

Brutus nodded. “Yes. I know.”

“What's it mean, do you think? Have the priests said?”

“Have the priests said,” echoed Brutus hollowly. “What haven't the priests said? They disagree among themselves as badly as the Senate. And our new Pontifex Maximus is a man named Lepidus – have you met Lepidus? No? Well, suffice to say, I won't be putting too much stock in his profound insights anytime soon.”

“But what do _you_ think it means?” asked Lucilius again quietly. On matters both spiritual and moral, he would trust the other man before anyone else on the continent, Pontifex Maximus be damned.

Brutus said nothing for a long while. He waited patiently; he was used to Brutus's long silences. It was not unlike an infantry march: slow, methodical, and someone else was always in charge. He let his mind go blank as he would on a march, and the minutes passed peaceably.

“I think it means we have crossed a threshold. A door has opened, and the comet is leading us through it. What lies on the other side – that, I don't know,” admitted Brutus. “But I think it will make or break us for good.”

Brutus had always been a very serious person, but Lucilius didn't think that was what this was. He said, trying for some gentle mixture of comfort and reminder, “People have been forecasting the fall of the Republic for longer than either of us have been alive. There's no reason to think this time is any different than those – we're better off, by some metrics. I mean, you deposed the great threat.”

He grimaced. “Lucilius, don't laugh at me.”

“I'd never,” he said with some surprise.

Brutus blinked at him with surprise and said in a rush, “Oh, I have missed you, old friend.”

“What's this, are many people laughing at you?” Lucilius straightened up, a little affronted on his behalf. “Whatever for? You're not a very funny man.”

He laid a hand on his arm to forestall further objections and said, “I meant only – it's just. Well. It turns out the Republic's a bit of a mess. That's what I have learned as consul. Rome, it's... a shambles, really.”

Lucilius had spent years traveling across the provinces to put down rebellions. He was used to seeing lands depleted of citizen farmers and dominated by wealthy estates worked solely by slaves.

He pressed his lips together and very loyally did not laugh. “Ah.”

Brutus flicked a self-deprecating smile his way. “It's alright. I've decided you can laugh. I want to laugh, sometimes. This situation we have found ourselves in....” Brutus gave in to impulse and groaned lightly, reaching up to press his eyes hard with his fingers. “You know we have replaced over two dozen corrupt magistrates in Italy alone? But the corruption, it's endemic – soon as I swap the bad ones out, the new ones will fall prey to the same weakness.”

The use of the plural did not escape his notice. He asked, “And your colleague, Mark Antony. He feels the same?”

Brutus let his hands drop. He gave him a tired smile. “My colleague has seen fit to leave this aspect of administration in my hands. Which is fine, he has no head for it, as he himself readily admits. But it bothers me to think the choices I make will reflect back on both of us.”

“You know, I've never actually met him – Mark Antony, is he a good man?”

“He can be,” came the firm reply.

Lucilius wondered if he should leave it be, but he couldn't help but ask, tentatively, “And when he's not?”

Brutus hesitated, looking away. “Antony's had a hard life. It has led him to hold certain – unorthodox desires.”

Lucilius schooled his expression and waited, surprised and a little curious to see if Brutus would broach the rumors with him. He had thought long and hard on his travels about how he would react if they proved true. He eventually decided that, although he personally could not understand his friend's choice – he preferred his bedmates to be rather more endowed in the chest and less armed to the teeth – he would stand by him no matter what.

Brutus looked back at the door as if to check that no one was listening in, then leaned towards him and said quietly, “I think he desires a king.”

After a second Lucilius realized this was not a euphemism. He did not understand. After another pause, he said, “He desires... to _be_ a king?”

“No, no, I don't think so. I think he genuinely believes Rome would be better served as a – as a monarchy.” Brutus looked almost ill to say the word, and clearly wretched at having to speak of his friend in such a manner.

He understood the feeling – it was coming over him just as quickly. “But what you are describing – a consul of Rome doesn't believe in the Republic? Brutus, that's treason,” he said urgently. “That's _sacrilege_.”

“That's not what I said,” he said sharply. “I was merely talking about, about desires. Desires are not belief.”

Lucilius nodded gravely. “Mark Antony, yes: famously in control of his desires.”

“He would never act on this.”

“And who would believe he wouldn't? We're talking about the man who slayed his patron and most dutiful defender. People think there is very little he wouldn't do, given the proper motivation.”

“He slayed Caesar the _tyrant_ ,” pointed out Brutus, tightly.

“He slayed Caesar, who refused to accept the crown Antony offered him at Lupercalia,” countered Lucilius, with emphasis. “Do you really think that old story won't get trotted out as soon as it feels relevant again?”

“Well, it won't be relevant again, because what I have shared with you will go no further than this room.”

The weight of the secret – a secret that could bring down the precarious peace currently operating within the Senate – settled on Lucilius like Atlas's burden. He bowed his head under it and the two friends were quiet for a time.

“Do you think you can control him?” he asked finally. He sought some measure of comfort, some sign that Brutus wasn't playing alea with the most powerful office in Roman government.

“I trust he will listen to me. But Lucilius,” said Brutus, “you are looking for threats in the wrong direction. It's not Antony I worry about – it's everyone else.”


End file.
